


Endgame

by chess_and_politics



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Self Harm, quote based piece set between Florence Quits and the end of act 1, uh Freddy is a dysfunctional mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-31 18:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_and_politics/pseuds/chess_and_politics
Summary: “The end is in the beginning, and yet you go on.”Or, the author saw a play a month ago and has been stuck on this quote ever since.  (Endgame by Samuel Beckett)





	Endgame

_The end is in the beginning, and yet you go on._

Freddy was needy.

Florence needed an escape.

It was a rather convenient pairing.

They had always struggled on together on the concept _good enough_. Freddy threw childish fits and yelled too loudly and always, _always_ found someone else to blame for his fuckups, but for Florence, he was _good enough_. Florence didn’t push back when he shoved, nitpicked until his ears bled, and just didn’t understand him, but for Freddy, she was _good enough_. Never mind that Freddy knew he couldn’t care for her as anything other than his sole friend, or that Florence was more of a mother than a girlfriend. They ignored the writing on the wall. They avoided the pain of acknowledging their reality.

It was the same fight. It was always the same fight. There was some source of paranoia, and then Freddy stopped trying to function. Florence forced him into showering, or changing his clothes, or just letting her bandage his arms. She would lecture him until he was sick of feeling like a child, to which she _always_ responded, “Then stop _acting_ like one, Frederick,” when he complained. He’d snap back with something bad, because he wouldn’t be Freddy Trumper if he wasn’t making everyone around him just as miserable as he was. Her attempts to calm him never worked. Freddy ranted and raved until the moment was over, and then Florence reluctantly helped him up and combed her fingers through his hair as he offered weak apologies. He never knew what to say. She never cared. Florence had the foresight to know it wasn’t the last time.

It was the same fight, except it wasn’t. It wasn’t, this time. This fight was worse, because it ended things. Freddy was hurt, emotionally but not physically, but Florence didn’t drag him off the floor and tend to his wounds this time. This time, she left him.

She had always threatened that, during times when his behavior was just _too much_ to handle. The first few times, he had taken it seriously. When she said that, he’d stop ranting and start crying and _beg_ her to stay. He wasn’t Freddy Trumper without being a pain in the ass, but he was barely a person without Florence. Without her, he wasn’t the (soon to be former) World Chess Champion. Take away Florence and all that was left for anyone to see was a fucked up child too full of spite and hate and everything awful to even care for himself.

It wasn’t the same fight, this time, because when Freddy stormed into the bathroom at an ungodly hour of the morning, there was no one to follow him in and stop him from renewing the scars he’d had since high school.

(When Walter finds him the next day, he sighs and tells him to _grow the fuck up_ but doesn’t acknowledge the bloodstains everywhere.)

There was no one to wake him up the next morning and pull him out of the bathtub where he had ended up when his private bitchfit was over.

(Walter stands by the door of the too-small bathroom and gripes about how they’ve been looking _everywhere_ for him when he decided _to not fucking show_ for a very important event. Freddy only stands up because that will let him strangle Walter. He doesn’t get to.)

There was no one to yell or gripe or curse or acknowledge him.

(Walter looks through him, not at him. Walter clearly doesn’t see _Freddy_, he sees a thing to be in charge of. His gaze is absent and impatient as Freddy runs his arms under the bathroom sink in a half-assed attempt to freshen up.)

There was no one. There wasn’t even Freddy, just whatever thing lay bleeding and sobbing in the hotel bathtub.

(Walter isn’t Florence, and he’s glad. He couldn’t stand Florence right now. Maybe he needs this kind of bluntness, he reasons.)

It was five-one. Every shred of humanity he had left was gone. He wasn’t going to win. Not against Sergievsky. Not without Florence.

(He’s handed clothes that aren’t crinkled and bloodstained and ordered to change. Walter grants him enough privacy to change without watching him. Surprisingly. When he’s changed and clumsily bandaged up, Walter not-so-gently escorts him to wherever the hell he was supposed to be three hours ago.)

He wasn’t going to do anything anytime soon, besides give up.

_The end is in the beginning, and yet you go on._


End file.
